


Life in You

by Misty_Endings



Series: Stories of Our Love [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Cuz it's my story and I can do that, Finger Sucking, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Life-Affirming Sex, Love, M/M, Outdoor Sex, POV Bard, POV Thranduil, Romance, making stuff up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-13 03:36:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4506225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Endings/pseuds/Misty_Endings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a celebration in Dale, the Dwarves present Bard with a mighty present of a statue.  Everyone loves it... except Bard.  Thranduil attempts to ease Bard's concerns, but the gift suddenly opens up a conversation the pair long avoided, and soon things turn into a celebration of Bard's life.</p>
<p>(I think I really suck at this summary stuff.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bard POV

_There were so many stories Bard could recall of his times in Greenwood the Great.  Seeing Thranduil in his element was a site to behold.  He looked like he belonged there, his kingdom fitting him better than his clothes, which fit him exceptionally in their own well-tailored right.  But not all of their meaningful tales happened in that place. Dale was Bard’s home now, even if it may never fit Bard in the same fashion.  But he did love its people, his friends and especially the brood he was raising.  And they in turn saw Bard as an instrumental part in seeing the city restored for them all.  So came the day of the festivities celebrating Dale’s revival.  Yet Bard did not expect that personally for him and Thranduil it was to become a night celebrating his life…_

As a leader of Dale, Bard had not a single qualm in the people throwing as lavish a festival and feast as the city could manage, and simply as one of Dale’s inhabitants he too thought it was a fine idea.  Over a full year later since the people of Laketown relocated to its ruins they had banded together and rebuilt a new life.  Their Dwarven and Elven neighbors were incremental in the success as well with their gold and aide.  Not everything was as simple as it sounded.  There was a lot of hardships and disputes and contracts and agreements and so and so on.  Yet now was the time to set aside any differences or concerns.  Dale’s neighbors brought food both fine and strange, drinks of fragrant flavors and varying alcohol content, and even gifts.  Bard was very appreciative of it all, until a special delivery from the Dwarves of Erebor arrived that warm spring afternoon. 

When he saw the long sled being pulled by ten giant horned rams enter the city, he just somehow knew what was beneath the heavy protective cloths and instantly was cursing in his mind, while at the same time hoping he was wrong.  Then it was brought to the courtyard outside of the Old Hall, hoisted and erected by a handful of the most burly and stout engineers and builders he had come to know in his dealings with Lord Dain.  The same red-bearded Dwarf Lord delivered a rousing and energetic speech that Bard was only half-listening to; in-and-out of his own thoughts, while flashing looks to his children across the way as if somehow hoping they could conjure magic to change this moment before it came to its apex.  Bain and Sigrid tried to look reassuring while Tilda was bubbling with curiosity over whatever was under there.  Upon one of the balconies his eyes found Thranduil, who had been wearing his usual mask of indifference for these social situations.  He had always wondered if the elf had some capability of reading Bard’s thoughts, often voicing things that he was indeed thinking and commenting upon them.  When Bard stared up at him long enough, wondering if he knew what he was thinking now about this situation, his lover’s right eyebrow slightly raised.  Then the corner of his lips quirked upwards.

_Thanks for the support, Bastard…_

When Dain called for his son, saying that the “young lad should do the honors,” Bard was finally sure what was about to be.  A surprised Bain allowed himself to be led up to it.  He pulled at the rope and in a flourish it was unveiled:  an eight foot tall statue of a scene depicting “Dale’s King and heir in the throes of vanquishing the evil and terrible Smaug the Dragon,” as Dain so dramatically put it.  It wasn’t an exact capture of that moment like they had lived it; not that he cared to remember the fire and fear exactly as it happened (and think of the heartache that could have been saved if only Smaug had been as small as the statue!).  The white stoned figures faced off the stony scaled serpent, holding a replica of the black arrow made from black volcanic glass, which Bard actually found impressive to have been made in such detail.  In fact it was all rather impressive, but the statue bothered Bard to no end.

There was absolutely nothing he could do about it.  He could not reject it.  It would be a grave insult to all the craftsmen, who surely had to put in countless time working on it, let alone the Dwarf Lords who conceived it.  He half-hoped that this was just something to upstage the Elvenking’s delegation, going too far over their silly need to outdo the other for the King of Dale’s respect or affections or whatever the hell they wanted.  If it was, then maybe he would have legitimate reason to complain without looking like an ingrate.  However, since Bard consummated his relationship with the Elvenking and became his people’s  _Brannon nîn_ , Thranduil rarely competed with Dain anymore over him.  Nothing  _anyone_ could do would take Bard’s love from the elf that claimed it.  The ring Bard wore on his finger was a pretty hefty sign of that as well, but at least Dain’s people could take credit for making it.  So the Northern Lords were actually on “good” terms as of late and behaving pretty pleasantly under the same setting.   _The one time they aren’t bickering and are acting on their best behavior… Damn them_ .

The intent came completely from a kind and generous place from his mountain neighbors Bard understood, so how could he possibly not accept it?  He and his son were forever immortalized within the city and everyone loved it.

_Almost everyone_ … Bard gave a thankful and endearing speech, speaking of the tenacity of the Men of the Lake as what made their new home endure.  Then he was able to use this moment to kick off the festivities.  For a while he was glad to have the feast to enjoy.  It drew him and everyone else away from the courtyard and its new centerpiece and let him forget about it for a while.  Everyone was merry.  The drinks that flowed were excellent.  Even as Bard did what was expected of him by making rounds, he did not mind or shy from the jovial company.  He wanted nothing more than to make his way to Thranduil’s side too, but he was always pulled away by someone else.  He had to settle for watching from across the way his daughters convince the elf to dance with them during the slower paced songs.  It was amusing and heartwarming, and he moved with unsurprising grace.  Eventually as the hour grew late and the guests more rowdy, he made pardons in order to escort his children away from the party.  It was well past midnight and their determined resolve to stay awake looked more like the guests who were moving quite inebriated from too much ale.  So much so that he grilled them in a fatherly manner to make sure they hadn’t disobeyed him and got into the drink themselves.  Bain looked and smelled a bit questionable, but at least his walk wasn’t veering into the pillars.  Satisfied enough by their “of course not,” he led them away.  Tilda was beginning to nod off in his arms before he could make it out the door of the loud and crowded room.  Sigrid insisted she could see them off, especially when many of their guests were clamoring he come back quickly for another song or a game, but Bard insisted back to her that he was still their Father and would make sure they were situated first.  Besides the walk to their house was exactly what he wanted:  Air and a moment of not being called in twenty directions. 

When they crossed paths with the statue, Tilda mumbled against his chest, “Good night Stone Da’” and fell asleep.

Once his children were settled into their beds and bidding their tutor Merenor gratitude for keeping an eye on them, he made his way back out into the night, yet he did not return to the halls.  Late the hour may be but the air was still pleasant and cooler than the atmosphere of all the packed people inside, so he slowed his pace.  When he reached the courtyard again, he came to a stop and sat upon a bench staring down “Stone Da’”.  He could still hear the commotions coming from the buildings and down some of the streets, but the courtyard was quiet enough with the exception of the crickets chirping and Bard’s thoughts coming and going in his head.  The few people that passed nearby were too engrossed in each other to take notice of him and he was glad.

He was even gladder when one particular person purposely came to take notice of him.

“I suspected I would find you here,” announced an approaching Thranduil, whose deep timbre instantly tempered Bard’s scowl.  “Not a very good hiding spot if you are trying to avoid your guests.”

“Most of the people in there are too drunk to want to come looking for me,” Bard responded, glancing over his shoulder to see the silhouettes moving behind the cloudy glass windows in the distance before turning pleading eyes up at Thranduil.  “Stay?”

The elf revealed a solitary goblet he brought and offered it to the sitting man before him.  “Tonight I am appreciative to exchange their company for that of Dale’s King and the crescent moon.” 

The crescent moon and he appreciated Thranduil as well with their smiles.  The night could not have delivered a finer herald on its behalf.  Was it always a trick of Bard’s imagination or did the light of the stars truly make the pale long curtain of his hair faintly illuminate whenever he stepped out into the night?   The velvet cloak draped around his shoulders was dyed a blue as dark as the sky above and clasped high by an intricate brooch of silver and amber.  It paired well with the less elaborate and thinly braided band that wrapped behind one pointed ear to the other and adorned with a tiny jewel that burst like a sun.  Perhaps this was what Thranduil considered  _dressed down_ for a light occasion.  Bard did not agree, but he was not going to criticize the beautiful sight that he now had to himself. 

He took the cup offered and held it up in toast.  “To My King, who shares his Dorwinion with me and my decoy, though I will drink his share, for he lacks a tongue to appreciate the flavor.”  Back he tossed the liquid but grimaced at the unexpected taste sliding down his throat.  “Water?!  You bring water?  This  _is_ a party, you know?”

“You are not out here celebrating anything,” Thranduil argued with a deprecating look.  “I’ll drink with you when you are not moping from displeasure at a stone.”

Bard rolled his eyes.  “So you come to lecture me?  How wonderful…”

Thranduil entered into his personal space to take his chin between his thumb and forefinger.  He tilted his head back and brought his face close.  The icy blue of the elf’s eyes bore into him as he softly yet sternly spoke:  “I came because I missed you.  The water was to keep you sober while I listened to your frustrations.  What I ‘lecture’ next –  _if_ I am to bother with speaking further at all – may be based on  _what_ attitude is directed to  _where_ and/or to  _whom_ .”

Alone as they were, it was not exactly a secluded space, so it surprised Bard when the Elvenking’s beautiful face drew closer until pale lips softly pressed against his own.  The touch was soft and warm.  When pulled away, his eyes also softened from a glare into an unspoken question to his companion.  If it is was to ask if Bard was sorry, the answer was yes.  In place of saying so, Bard scooted over and made room on the bench for Thranduil to join him.  And easing his concern over his attitude, the Elvenking did. 

The silence continued for what felt like minutes instead of seconds as together they regarded the view before them.  If he had the ability to jump outside of himself and view how they appeared, Bard thought it would seem like a silly sight: the bond-mates doing little but staring.  Testing the waters, Bard posed the question to break the quiet:  “Well, what do  _you_ think?”

“It is a generous gift,” Thranduil commented.  “And it is actually quite tasteful.” 

Bard looked at him in disbelief.  “Are you both defending  _and_ complimenting the Dwarves?” 

The elf looked at him from the corner of his eye.  “Promise not to tell them and I will do anything you ask of me.”

To willing let Bard have something to hold over his head meant Thranduil was no longer peeved.  He grinned and bumped his shoulder against his.  “I  _will_ remember that you said that for later.”

Thranduil hummed at his words.  It was nice to hear. “Until then… tell me why this bothers you so?”

He set aside the cup and ran a hand through his hair.  “Killing Smaug is not a pleasant memory for me.  I didn’t face him with the confidence that was what I was going to do.  I just wanted to distract him so the people could flee from the burning town.  Then when Bain brought me the Black Arrow, I believed I had a chance, but that chance could have easily gone wrong.  I did it because it had to be done and was fortunate enough to live through it in the end.  Does that deserve a statue?”

“You think a statue makes you pretentious?” the elf inquired, sounding terribly confused.

“Don’t tell me you don’t?!” exclaimed Bard. 

“Perhaps if you had it commissioned for yourself.  You’ve established quite well that  _this_ was not of your doing.”

“The Master of Laketown had a statue.  I hated that thing too.”

“You are  _far_ from the likes of The Master, who fled like a coward in front of the people he should have been protecting,” Thranduil reminded adamantly.  “You and your line held onto that Black Arrow because you understood that one day someone would need to stand up and face the evils of this world.  You performed a feat few have accomplished and not for gold or prestige.  Your people took strength from your victory and there are those who would honor you for it.  Let them enjoy it.”

Why was it when Thranduil gave his perspective that it lightened his thoughts? 

“I think if you tried you could find something positive to hold onto when you pass it,” Thranduil said as if urging him to do so.  “A reminder of the good that came from that unpleasant time?” 

Bard sighed and rested his hands on the back edge of the bench so he could comfortably lean, tilting his head as he studied the object before him.  “My family is alive and safe most importantly.”  His eyes then darted to Thranduil.  “And I truly got to know a certain Elvenking after it, who I doubt would have ever had reason to speak to me beyond my job as his bargeman.  Making me a king allowed me to be seen as worthy of another.”  Thranduil did not make attempt to correct him or pretend that they would have otherwise, so when he said nothing to refute him, Bard was not insulted. 

“Also,” Bard continued with a small smile as another thought occurred to him, “I guess I can be thankful Smaug wasn’t carved to scale.  I’d have a damn mountain in the middle of the gardens!”  It made the elf chuckle under his breath.  “And though I may have been raised under humble means, I am aware of certain styles of art, so I can be thankful that at least the commissioners did not depict me nude.” 

Thranduil then laughed freely.  “More’s the pity!  But I would not be quite so pleased if there was a high level of accuracy on certain details, and would demand to know  _how_ they were obtained.” 

And now Bard was laughing with him.  The more time that passed in their relationship, the more Bard appreciated Thranduil’s sense of humor and how the sound of his merriment made him seem less ethereal and more real.  Both things he felt the Elvenking revealed only to those closest to him. 

“Well I guess it’s here to stay, so that’s that,” Bard accepted, waving a hand in defeat.  “This is probably why most people do not have statues made of them until they are dead, so the living do not have to hear their bellyaching like I’ve done to you.”

This time Thranduil did not join in his laughter.  Though his smile did not completely fade, it did close.  He looked at Bard like he had the statue, like there was something he was trying to figure out.  The uneasy feeling was returning.   _What did I say?_

Thranduil turned attention to over Bard’s shoulder at the buildings behind.  “Most of those ‘too drunk’ people in this city regard you as their neighbor and some higher than themselves, and before their own passing will tell their children about what you did and how this city came to be again.  And those children will share those stories with their children, each retelling more grandiose of The Dragonslayer and King of Dale!  Your children’s lines will pass along what they truly loved about you; the personal details that made up a wonderful man of the lake simply named Bard.”  He rose from the bench; his stride slow and soft as he walked up to the gift.  The statue towered over even his imposing height.  “But, try as they might, even they will be clouded by history, until eventually the personal aspects of you are lost and the stories simplify to just your deeds and you become remembered as a legend.” 

Thranduil reached up to touch the stone imitation of his face, long fingers brushing over the cold and smooth carved jaw.  “However,  _I_ will be here as well, and I will not forget the Bard that becomes lost to them.  I will remember you as...  _you_ .  My long life preserves the memories of the Bard who played with his children in my forest; who fought beside me in battle; who told me stories and distracted me from burdening pain; who kissed me with fire and became  _Meleth nîn_ .  My memories of Bard cannot be taken from me.  And then I will be blessed and punished by the selfish wish that I have had since loving you:  That I would have to share you with no one and you would solely be mine.”

Loss was not something Thranduil handled well, but anger did not color him.  It was an unusual, sad acceptance.  Bard had seen the same melancholy on his face once before. Thranduil once admitted to him that he looked forward to the day Bain or Sigrid were older and could take up Bard’s mantle in Dale, allowing Bard to stay with him and never leave.  Bard wanted to argue with him that he would never be so selfish to thrust upon his children the burden before their time or joke that he was being too possessive over at what time would be an old man.  However, that look on his face had silenced him.  It had pained him.  He decided against speaking of it then for he didn’t want to think about it either.  Now the door was open and he could not ignore it a second time.

“When it happens, will you—“

“I will look after the children,” Thranduil interrupted adamantly.  “You have my word.”

Bard shook his head and rose.  “That thing you do is annoying sometimes:  Where you say exactly what I think.  But now I know you can’t completely read my mind because that was  _not_ it.  I already know you would look after our children no matter what.  You love them as they love you.  But I plan to see them myself into their adulthood and become old and gray in the process.”  He joined him at his side.  The hand Bard took did not pull away.  “I was going to ask will you allow me to be buried in The Greenwood?”

Thranduil went silent.  Bard did not want his empty shell to be seen as a consolation prize to not being able to fully dedicate himself to him while alive.   “I have come to love your home.  Its river has run through my veins since the day I was born by it.  I want to become one with the mysteries that always satisfied my curious nature.  And you infused your spirit in every part of it, so it is there I want to be close.”

There was not an abundance of emotion.  With a simple nod of his head and the hand gripping his tighter, Bard received his answer.  Words of gratitude need not be said by him.  All Bard did was faintly smile and run the back of his knuckles down the soft fabric over the elf’s strong chest.  Unexpected as it was to go from discussing the gift of the Dwarves to Bard’s end, knowing where he would be laid to rest was comforting. 

Yet his death meant leaving Thranduil behind, and despite the elf having survived ages of this world, it did not stop Bard from worrying what would become of him after he was gone.  Hard and stern as he could be, Bard had come to learn that Thranduil felt emotions deeper than most.  When his wife had died, he buried them so deep that they hardened him from the inside out.  It was a risk to have let Bard in and chisel his way through them.  Successfully he did, but he still did not let many others in.  To this day Bard and his children were the only ones he saw Thranduil treat as special outside his own kind, yet at least he socialized like he did this evening.  Everything took longer with Thranduil.  He would always remain guarded, but Bard could not bear if Thranduil reverted to shutting away again because of him, or worse, fade away as he heard Elves did upon great loss.  “Promise me you won’t close yourself off again.  Live and love and be great as I know you.  Take my memory with you, even when the time comes for you and your people to sail away from Middle Earth to the Undying lands.  Just do not shroud yourself in grief over it.”

Thranduil covered the hand that Bard had rested on his chest.  “Your worries are not necessary.”

“That is  _not_ a promise I hear,” Bard pointed out.

“When I allowed myself to love you, it meant that I had to accept your mortality.  I have and I am prepared.”

There was a certainty when he said it, like there was more to the sentence.  It was almost eerie. “What does that mean?” 

“It means I will never go to the Undying Lands.”

Bard still did not understand.  “What?”

“That decision I made long before you and I joined,” he guaranteed.  “My kind goes there, but for me personally there is nothing.  Just more reason for the Lords and Ladies of the Elven kingdoms to be displeased with me for ‘spurning our ways’ I am sure.  My choice is not one of rejecting tradition.  No one is waiting for me on the other side of the sea.  All I have loved died in  _these_ lands.   _Will_ die in these lands.  And while he is not by my side, my son is still here.”

“But when he returns and if he were to go--?”

“Then he will go with my blessing and I will mourn that he is forever gone,” Thranduil stated in a low voice, as if the thought was a pain he knew would occur.  “He already understands I will never leave.”

“But why?” Bard questioned stronger.  If Legolas was not reason enough to go, why would Thranduil stay?

To the sky he looked and the stars reflected in his eyes.  “This – The North – is where I belong.  The view of this sky is what is familiar and comforting.  The Greenwood needs me.  No, I do not think I will ever hear the calling of the sea.  Here is my ship and I will go down with it.  Whether my immortal soul is taken and becomes one with the earth or I am forced to find a new home and life, I do not know.  Elven foresight does not mean certainty.  But I will see more changes in this world and before whatever happens, if the Valar cares for me at all, I will see you return.”

Bard flinched.  “Return?” 

He did not know what to make of that statement nor the peculiar smile that suddenly graced Thranduil’s face.  “You will die.  There is nothing I will be able to do to avoid your mortality.  When your people die, their souls are judged, are they not?  I know yours is just.  I know it is beautiful.  It surely will be judged as worthy and return to this world.  Oddly it is what gives me comfort to bear your inevitable passing.”

_Had I not felt similar when I asked to be buried in his kingdom?_ Bard questioned to himself.

“So I do not need to make a promise, for the being I have become since loving you must remain in hopes you’ll find me again,” he declared.  Like Thranduil had with the statue he traced cool fingers along Bard’s jaw.  “But I will still be sad.  How will I recognize you?  Your face and your body will not be the same.  How I love them.  I can look at this statue but it will never capture the warmth in them.” 

Bard’s heart ached.  “No… No!  No!  No!”  He pulled his hands away forcefully.  “Thranduil you do not know!  Not truly!  You just said foresight does not mean certainty!  Have you ever met a soul again after it has left its body?”

The answer was apparent before he spoke. “No, but I have never been attached to a mortal before.” 

“You can't!” Bard insisted strongly.  “If all your people leave, you would resign to being alone or just take a chance that between now and then  _something_ _will happen?_ !  I don’t want that!  You need to be happy!”

“Resign?!” he scoffed.  “I never surrender to anything!  I will be busy while I wait for you defending these lands.  I cannot say I will be happy with the wait, but it is my love for you that makes me happy.  For that I can be patient.  If you love me enough to yell at me like this, then you better remember me.  I leave it to you to ensure I will not be waiting long.”

The fight was going out of him.   _To give me order even when I am dead?!_ It was exactly something Thranduil would say.  Bard laughed hopelessly.   _If only I **could** be with you forever. _

He cupped his face.  “I do love you, you stupid Elf.”

“If you ever call me that in public, I will punish you _Meleth nîn_ ,” Thranduil warned.  “Speaking of, I suppose I must share your attitude and your time with your guests.”

The Elvenking moved to pull away, but Bard did not let go.  For him to even try to step back felt like he would slip too far away.  The ache he felt still remained.  A possessive need overwhelmed his sensibilities.  No, Bard did not want his time shared nor wine and song.  This face was what he wanted to gaze upon.  His voice was all he wanted to hear.  He wanted Thranduil and no one else for the rest of the night.  Their current location was not ideal though.  The statue could bear witness silently, but it was too out in the open and the fortune of not being bothered surely would not last forever.  Home he immediately considered.  It was not uncommon for Thranduil to stay within it and his bed; they were joined after all.  An obvious choice as it may be, he could not afford a moment of interruption either on the way there or disturbing his children.  He was grateful that Elves did not require much sleep, and Bard had plans to keep Thranduil from it.  He needed him now and away from the city.  He needed to no longer think of separation and of death.

He needed to feel Thranduil’s life. 

“Do as I say,” Bard demanded, “and come with me.”


	2. Thranduil POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god! I am so, so, so sorry for the unbelievably long delay. If I have lost any readers, I know it is my own darn fault, but life got so much in the way. I've missed this place and all of your great works. Allow me to complete this one of mine before I move on to the next.

When Thranduil had tried to return him to the celebration, Bard would not release his hold on him.  He had not meant to burden the man with concern when Thranduil spoke of never leaving Middle Earth for the grace of the Undying Lands.  Neither did he want to sadden or anger him at the idea that he would wait for his soul to return.  In truth he had never planned to divulge his thoughts to Bard for he knew he would not approve.  What could Thranduil do **but** keep it secret?  It would be a lie if he promised Bard to completely let him go.  The attachment was not something he would easily be able to sever, even in death and passing of time.  It was the same attachment that had allowed him to make the decision to bed the mortal man and in turn make him _Brannon nîn_ amongst his kind.  Bard’s reign was young, but he was _still_ a king and _could_ _have_ done what other men in his position do to expand a kingdom and allies:  marriage to another noble house.  Once Dale’s walls had been renewed and secured and profitable trade reestablished, all it would have taken was a trusted liaison’s word in the right ear or messengers with written proposals.  Men of good standing with comely daughters would have easily jumped at the chance to befriend the small kingdom with its impressive neighbors.  It would be far from an unfortunate arrangement for whichever woman that was in the end, considering the man she would have been bound to be far from cruel, cowardly and ugly.

Yet Thranduil could not fathom the idea and made proclamation to him first.   

Surely such a thing was an unwise choice for Elves, considering the brevity of human life.  Political means established their initial meetings, but somewhere amongst time their talks turned allies into unexpected friends and then even more unexpected lovers.  Call it selfish.  Thranduil did not care.  Had Bard refused his proposal the elf would not have begged; his pride never allowing such a display.  However, it would have hurt to step away even in silent dignity.  Fortunately Bard accepted without hesitation and Thranduil did not waste moments on trying to point out other roads the man could have taken; roads that would have led in directions away from him.  Responsibilities to their people may keep them apart more than either would like – and how Thranduil wanted to be as close to him daily as the ring Bard wears signifying their promise – but his heart was always with him. 

So when Bard requested to be buried within his lands and Thranduil accepted, he knew he could not lie or keep secret to the body that would one day rest there.  Now that body was close to his and somewhere in those few seconds of silence Thranduil witnessed the sudden determination that came over his bond mate, which overshadowed his sorrow and the annoyance from the statue that brought them here in the first place.

“Do as I say and come with me,” Bard strongly ordered.

A hand latched tightly around the Elvenking’s wrist.  The very first step Bard took was not in the direction he assumed.  They were moving away from the paths that led to the Old Hall; away from the lights in the windows and voices in the streets.  Occasionally noises caused the man to stop and push them into the shadows or alleyways while he waited for whatever to pass.  When they saw people exiting from the buildings, Bard tugged him harder and directed him in low and sometimes harsh tones “This way” or “Hurry.” 

Never did Bard release his hold.  The man’s hand felt hotter and hotter with each passing second and his grip so tight that Thranduil was aware of his own pulse radiating from his wrist and up his forearm.  They did not run, but Thranduil could feel the edges of his cloak slightly drag in the air from their very brisk pace.  Each step was quick and in haste.  Bard knew exactly where they were going.  Thranduil wished he did too.

When was the last time someone spoken to or handled the king in this manner?  When would one dare!  Lithe as he appeared, Thranduil possessed a strength that could easily and painfully subdue someone who would try.  To let one he loves was even against Thranduil’s usual nature, but curiosity was getting the best of him.  This was not the way to the quarters where Bard resided or to any practical locale he had visited during his many times in Dale.  “Where are you taking me?”

“Away,” was all he declared; the period at the end of that word silently pronounced.

And away he took him, spiriting them out through the back of the city and into the open fields that separated Dale from Erebor.  The city was still close but its fires could not reach them and its noise began to fade.  Only the moonlight cut through the darkness and the sounds of crickets and the breeze over the grass the only disturbance.  Who would look for them here?  It was clearly what Bard had in mind as he finally brought them to a halt beside a lone curved tree.  He did not even take the time to catch his breath before pushing Thranduil down hard into the soft grass.

A protest to the treatment barely could be considered.  Strong legs bent down and straddled over him, and all Thranduil could see above him were the stars and Bard.  Rough was the kiss that quickly covered his lips; the wet and warm tongue entering his mouth eliciting a moan deep in the elf’s throat.  In the same hasty and unexplained manner Bard had brought him here his lover was blindly unfastening the silver brooch that clasped the dark cloak.  Thranduil almost thought he was about to tear it from the fabric before he managed to release it.  The elf turned away his head.  It did nothing to pause Bard’s actions.  “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” he replied huskily by his ear before nipping the soft spot beneath it, stealing a stunned gasp from the elf.  He gave no care to the jewelry as he dropped it from his hand to the earth, proceeding to unravel the blue velvet cloak from the broad shoulders and splaying it wide.  “How is it you become more beautiful beneath the night?  Your smell more alluring?  You seem to glow.”

There was a level of vanity to the nature of Elves, and words so sincere were truly moving to him.  Thranduil forced them up to free his long hair that was being pinned awkwardly beneath the fabric.  Bard lacked the patience to wait a single second and instead moved onto himself, slipping his own vest from his shoulders and pulling his tunic over his head. 

The light of the moon rested all around the bare arms and taut back.  Waves of black hair fell around his face.  The shadows casted were not so dark that the elf could not see the desire in the man’s eyes.  The weight of his body was heavy when it sat back upon him and he could feel Bard’s hardening arousal already.  There was little time to value the sight before his mate was immediately back to pawing at his fine clothes.  The hooks gave away one-by-one.  Rare had become Bard’s complaining of the complexity to his wardrobe now that he had ample “practice” removing them in their marriage.  The air chilled against his pale skin as it became more and more exposed to it, but the hands that were exposing him were hot when they grazed past his chest.  Normally Bard undressed him slow, seducing him in other ways while he did to stimulate him all the more.  Tonight he worked with urgency, more satisfied with access to touching him than trying to remove his clothes entirely.  His words uttered against the elf’s neck reflected the same:  “I want you inside me.”

Never had he taken Bard beneath the open sky and stars.  Not because he did not want to, but opportunity never had presented itself.  Now it did, and his nerves were screaming to comply; however, he never could hold back when it came to romancing Bard and there was something lacking...

“Bard, I have nothing to prepare you,” Thranduil protested.  “A moment and we can return back to your home and my oil there—“

A hand had changed its objective and immediately traveled between Thranduil’s legs, cupping hard his member and turning the elf’s words into a shaky exhale.  “A moment is too long,” Bard objected with deep desire, wantonly stroking him over the fabric while kissing him roughly beneath his chin.  “Earlier you said you would do whatever I asked.  Remember?  I am asking you to fuck me.  Here.  Now!”

The vulgarity of his words shocked yet enflamed him as Bard continued his ministrations.  Thranduil was confused for Bard’s acts were that of one who wanted to possess despite his words of wanting to be taken.  “It will hurt,” Thranduil warned, trying to suppress his own rising need to have him.  “Enter me instead.”

“I’m not delicate, dammit!” he argued, sounding oddly insulted by his suggestion, which was not Thranduil’s meaning.  Nor did he mean for Bard to abandon the welcomed assault he had been making on the elf’s neck like he now had.  The Elvenking simply knew his own body could rebound easier from the intensity Bard had in mind, and in honesty that excited Thranduil to a degree.  Seemed all he really did was add to the fire in those hazel eyes as Bard proceeded to pull and untie the laces of Thranduil’s leggings.

The Elvenking shook his head, as if there were some reason he should argue back, but no words came.  No longer able to withstand him, Thranduil hooked an arm around his lover and flipped their positions.  The ground was hard and cold despite the grass, but Thranduil felt the soft velvet of his coat would serve as their blanket.  There would be discomfort, but pain was not what he wanted Bard to endure.  He would make this pleasurable for them both.

With a sharp tug he lowered Bard’s trousers as far as his knees, seeking only to free his growing erection yet keep him restricted from trying to position himself in any fashion.  Yes, his lover was trying to rush in every way and he would not make him wait, but no, he would not just ram into him.  Thranduil lay his body on top, propping himself up on his forearm to give him balance and the body beneath him enough room to breathe.  “Now you need to do as _I_ say,” he whispered strongly, his long fingers tracing the rim of the mouth he desired.  A response wasn’t expected or needed to know Bard would accept the condition.  Gently two of his digits pried between the soft flesh of his lips, at which point Bard opened enough for the elf to slip them inside the moist space up almost to the last joint.  “Suck," he instructed. 

It was quickly apparent what Thranduil needed from him and Bard complied.  There was little if nothing for his fingers to do but keep still while the soft tongue lapped and slid and coated.  The elf let the mouth continue as he moved back slightly to shift his balance to his knee.  It allowed him to reach his free hand down between them.  “Do not bite down.”   

Whatever word, name or cuss Bard tried to release was distorted by the object in his mouth as Thranduil’s hand wrapped around their lengths, both hot and hardening from the slow friction he made as he dragged and pulled.  Rare did Thranduil touch himself this way for he insisted on self-discipline, preferring to bottle and save his desire for Bard and not waste it on fantasies of the mind and self-indulgence.  Though to have his cock touching his, aroused and weeping, the elf did not care how lewd or exposed either appeared.  Thranduil growled from the hunger it was producing, forcing himself to look up at the dark sky to not become too overanxious from the sight of his lover’s debauched presence.  It was difficult not to be, when Thranduil was the one making him so. 

Finally determined it was all enough to proceed, Thranduil removed his fingers.   Bard licked away the broken trail of spittle left upon his lower lip and swallowed hard with anticipation.  Seeing him so flushed made Thranduil knew what he wanted to do to him.  “Roll over.”

In his stirred eagerness Bard barely registered what he had said before Thranduil was already turning him onto his front.  “No Thranduil,” he objected, looking over his shoulder.  “I want to see your face--Ahh!”  Further objections died with his cry when a finger pushed into his entrance, and Bard’s head dropped against his forearm with a harsh whimper upon the second. 

It was too fast, but Thranduil could already tell the saliva upon his fingers would not last enough and dry before he could stretch him sufficiently if he did not react.   Not wishing to displease his lover the elf adjusted Bard again to his side, allowing him to see his face for now as requested.  He rested his free hand on top of one of Bard’s before he leaned in and soothingly hushed a reminder into his ear: “Breathe slow…”

It took Bard a minute to do just that, especially as Thranduil began to circle and push against his inner walls.  He was very tight, which the elf expected from the time that passed since they had last been in one another’s company.  However, time did not make him forget the map of his lover’s body.  Halfway in and halfway out he moved until finally Bard responded positively, his mewls turning into breathy moans; his backside starting to slightly rise and push back against that which worked him.  Seemed the intrusion had only caught him off-guard; not tamed his lust.  He continued to rest his cheek against his arm and gnashed his teeth when Thranduil pressed into him more, but his eyes were fiery in their corners and locked onto those that stared back.  What about it caused Thranduil to grin seductively he could not fully explain, but the intensity of it felt like a challenge. 

_No, not a challenge… You are enjoying this and you are baiting me into giving you more._

And it _did_ make Thranduil want him more, crooking his fingers into the spot that made Bard shiver and release his name. 

Thranduil did it again to continue his delight.  “You certainly _are not_ delicate, _Meleth nîn_.”

Unhurriedly he pulled out his fingers and for a brief second Bard’s eyelids slammed shut as a shudder overcame him.  The air was also growing colder and contributing to it, but Thranduil would deal with it.  He rolled Bard once more onto his front, who did not balk this time from it nor when he was pulled back by his hips and up onto his knees and forearms.  Thranduil’s cock positioned against his entrance and pushed inside.  Bard sunk slightly forward and hung his head low between his shoulders.  Thranduil followed with him, draping over the lovely arch of his back while wrapping arms around his waist.  Disheveled as his clothes had become, they mostly remained on Thranduil’s form.  Still, he could feel the bumps of Bard’s spine and the tension of his muscles against his exposed chest.  Long shimmering hair all fell over one side of the elf’s shoulder and caressed the man’s cheek and arms.  It was like Thranduil was trying to hide as much of Bard’s nakedness from the moon and stars above them.  That was fine.  Thranduil was meant to be the only one to possess him for the rest of tonight.

Holding him close he eased his way in further to make them completely one.  Thranduil would have described it as beautiful and consuming, as it had been so many times between them before, if not for the sudden sob that wracked the body beneath him.  To worry it was caused from physical pain would be easy to assume, and yet when his lover’s hand once again snatched and clutched at his wrist, Thranduil remembered why they were here.

“Do not think any more about the future,” the elf whispered, placing a soothing kiss between his shoulder blades, tasting the salt of the mortal’s skin.  “You are with me now.  I refuse to let either of us disappear unless it is within each other.”

Bard choked back another sob and a strange sort of laugh soon filled its place.  “I said it was annoying when you do that thing were you say what I am thinking.”

Reading minds was not an ability Thranduil possessed as Bard might claim; simply that his lover was an interesting subject and one he was passionate in studying.  “Will you tell me I have been wrong again?”  Thranduil waited for a response, but Bard instead silently composed his emotion, which was answer in itself.

Then Bard’s touch changed, his hand moving away from his wrist and tangling into the soft billow of long hair, slipping behind his head to pull down Thranduil’s closer.  “Do not hold back.  I feel your love in everything you do to me, even when it hurts.”

As he stared into those hazel eyes and sense the ring of silver upon Bard’s finger faintly graze him, Thranduil delighted in the love he felt.

Thranduil rocked his hips, groaning when the muscles inside Bard pulled at him.  “You feel so deep this way,” Bard marveled hoarsely over the sensation from the position.  When Thranduil did it again, strategically moving against the sensitive spot inside him, Bard had to let him go and grip the edges of the cloak upon the ground instead.  The elf let him purposely slip away, catching him by hips and moving with increased intensity. 

Together they moved, connecting and releasing and connecting again.  The enjoyable cries that fell from Bard’s lips were growing louder and what words he could speak were filled with admiration and Thranduil’s name.  When something escaped him that was not as pleasant, Bard seemed to fight against whatever pain or discomfort attacked him by shaking his head or pushing back against Thranduil to coax him to continue.

Heavy became his breathes as he thrusted rougher and faster into his lover.  Bard was already approaching his climax and pleading for release, and like so often in this state, he would ensure Thranduil came with him, tightening around his member.  Why could it not be like this always and forever?  Each second a vibration; a breath; a moan.  Each minute a need; a want; an eternity of desire tethered by a fragile string.  The added tension broke them both and drained them to their end, filling Bard with more of Thranduil’s heat and spurting all of Bard’s to the ground under him.

And the ground welcomed them in their entirety.  For a very small while Thranduil lay partially on top of Bard, saying nothing and catching breathe in the open air.  He smoothed away the strands of hair that cling to Bard’s temples; placed a soothing kiss there and then down to the shoulder.  It would be nice to stay exactly like this, falling asleep inside his lover within the grass and below the blanket of night, ignoring the fact that this place was only a temporary respite.  Getting motivated to leave was easier imagined than done.  He tried to remove himself from inside Bard, but his lover made an irritated noise and stopped him, pulling Thranduil closer rather than pushing him off and guiding his arm to wrap Bard in embrace. 

“Not ready yet,” he complained hoarsely.  What little position he did turn was only a sign of what he wanted, and Thranduil continued to give his lover just that, kissing him gently. 

“I did not intend to be so rough,” Thranduil apologized against his lips.

“I like how you ruined me,” he assured softly, before nudging him slightly.  “I just don’t think I can handle another version of this performance during your stay, so before we dress and leave just let me enjoy the coolness still running in my veins and recuperate here.” 

“Hmm…” Thranduil hummed, contemplating and narrowing his eyes.  “A clever way of saying _you’ll_ be having _me_ next, Dragonslayer?”

Bard laughed, coming to rest his head upon his arm.  “What did I say about you speaking my thoughts aloud?  Well, My King, when I do, it certainly won’t be on your cloak.  I am afraid we have ruined it.”

Indeed they had.  What had served as blanket was now more of a crumbled heap; the visible marks of earth on Bard’s limbs surely staining the fabric itself as well.  What Thranduil could see was Bard’s essence blemished on the velvet.  

“I have others,” he dismissed without care.  The expensive fabric paled in comparison to the last waves of orgasm that still lingered inside him.  Giving in, Thranduil rested his cheek on his back. “I do not think either of us is acceptable to returning to your party.”

“If anyone is actually paying attention to the fact that we have been absent, I’m sure they’ve guessed why by now,” Bard grumbled.  “Anyway, if they want to see me for the rest of the night, let them go talk to my statue while you and I go sneak off to home.”  He playfully tugged at the long hair around him.  “Hey.  Note that as another good to think about when I pass it in the courtyard.”

Thranduil smiled so wide he was sure Bard could feel it. 

They had made love many times yet Thranduil was never bored.  He relished the rush that filled him with Bard; the ache that radiated from his abdomen to his thighs; the desire that possessed and consumed.  The most wonderful thing of all was the way his lover gave meaning to each encounter.  Every time and every touch was different and memorable.  Bard need not dwell on death or fear that parting would take him away forever.  The man was the savior from his loneliness and The Elvenking would honor that gift by living and with any luck earning his return. 

_Never will I give up on such a treasure… in this life or your next._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a particular fondness for this story and I hope you enjoyed it. I hope my next work when I finally finish editing it and posting it here does too.


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